


What Will I Let In?

by kazoobard



Category: The guy who didn't like musicals, tgwdlm - Fandom
Genre: Emetophobia, Other, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazoobard/pseuds/kazoobard
Summary: A look inside Paul's head during Let It Out.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	What Will I Let In?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on ao3. I don't know how to italicize so I used /x/ for italics.

Paul’s head pounds.

  
The monsters won’t stop touching him. Their hands are cold, like the blue running through their bodies had frozen over. The creatures’ skin stretched and folded strangely, causing a disturbing portrait of the people he once knew. Paul’s mouth is dry— he’s petrified. He can’t make his brain work. Somebody caresses the back of his head, and he gags, the professor’s liquor churning his stomach. Bill drags his— its— hand across Paul’s torso, bumping the belt of hand grenades strapped to his chest. Paul squeezes his eyes shut. The last time he saw Bill, he was begging Paul to let him die. The last time he saw Bill, he laid crumpled on the ground, a pool of blood and gray matter flowing from his head. Paul’s body starts to shake. He can’t breathe.

  
The asteroid behind him hurts his eyes every time he looks back— he squeezes his eyes shut, but his brain still rattles against his skull— those things won’t stop singing. He’s tempted to cover his ears, the voices and the piano are all too much, and— he doesn’t remember hearing music before.

  
No, he’s sure there was no music before— that’s part of why it was so grating. The harmonies sounded too piercing and loud without the balance of an instrument, but he swears he can hear one now. Or… maybe he can’t? It’s hard to tell. He’s shaking from head to toe, wants nothing more than to cower and cover his ears, but he can’t. He can’t. He has to do this. He has to—

  
His arm moved. No. No, no, it didn’t. Maybe it was an autistic compulsion— maybe his body is trying to protect him, block the horrible noise from shattering his brain. Even as he thinks this, he knows it’s wrong. This isn’t his body protecting him. This is his body giving in.

  
Paul’s limbs move in time with the creatures. He gasps softly, horrified. He grabs his arm and holds it down, terror gripping his heart. His hand’s grip loosens— his arms fly to his hips, which lurch in succession— his mouth opens into a grin— no. No. No. Please, no.

  
The music grows louder. Paul’s senses are screaming at him to run, or to melt down, something so that he can escape. He wants to curl up and scream, something he hadn’t done since way back in high school band class, but he can’t make himself. He forces his jaw open, hoping a scream would release the tension building inside, but instead—  
A note. Fuck. Fuck. He holds his hands to his chest— an old comforting technique— but he’s still trembling. No. No, no, no. Please, no. Paul whimpers, afraid and pained, as one of the monsters explains. It’s the meteor. He’s too close to it. It’s infecting him, squeezing his lungs, strangling his vocal chords. The creatures smile in twisted glee— Paul’s feet shuffle and his hands lift, fingers wagging in an unwilling dance. He can feel his face distorting, splitting time between a twisted grin and abject horror. The music in his head cuts in and out, causing his head to swim with sensory overload, but he can’t do anything about it.

_And a good thing, too. The music sounds so nice. What kind of silly person would want that to go away?_

  
No. No. This is bad. Isn’t it? There’s a job to do, but, fuck, he can’t remember—

  
_That sounds awfully stressful. Wouldn’t it be much easier to forget it? After all, this is going to make us so much happier._

  
Tears brim at Paul’s eyes. He cries out, guttural and fearful, hoping that someone— anyone could help him. His body works against him, but he can feel bile rising in his throat— good. Good, yes, that’s good. Paul drops to his knees, shoves two fingers down his throat in hopes that maybe…

  
His throat doesn’t cooperate. His stomach churns, his face streaked with snot and tears, but… he is happy, isn’t he? The meteor will save him. He should celebrate.

  
Finally, oh finally, they’ve stopped singing. They’re quiet. But Paul isn’t. No— His chest swells as his body produces something beautiful, something horrifying.

  
_Horrifying? Why would we think that? We sound so nice._

  
Paul sobs, interrupted by another lyric. He’s in so much pain— his hands lurch to his chest. Yes. Yes. Maybe he can—  
A grenade is loose from the belt. Held tight in his shaking hands. He pulls the pin. They close in, but he regains control just long enough—

  
He releases the grenade—

  
Shuts his eyes tight—

  
Hears it land—

  
Thank fuck.

_Good thing that’s over, Paul. We should go visit that crabby barista. I bet we could make her a whole lot happier._


End file.
